Cabin Pressure: Aeroplane wings and guitar strings
by ko-writes
Summary: Prompt: Martin is a (actually rather good) songwriter. He's written songs for various people but he got screwed over, and has decided instead to start singing his songs himself even though he's a very shy performer. TW: Past Abuse, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Addiction.


Work Text:

Martin sat on the stool in the recording studio with his guitar on his knee. It was covered in faded stickers from various things he could hardly remember.

His calloused fingers played the simple cords and riffs for the song. It was a song that needed the lyrics to speak for themselves.

_In a cold dark place_

_Below a smoky sky_

_Need some more space_

_'Cause the air is chocking me._

His head swayed to the music slightly, eyes closed. He was less nervous with his eyes closed.

_I know what's wrong_

_I always knew it would happen_

_Still can't make me strong_

_Why would it?_

His voice echoed slightly, but that was ok. His strumming picked up speed with odd notes thrown in.

_Because away from the aeroplanes_

_On the dusty cold ground_

_My soul tied down by chains_

_And my messed up love for you._

_Of aeroplane wings_

_In midnight glow_

_And guitar strings_

_In the minor key._

_I'll fly away_

_I won't be hurt_

_My soul is grey_

_And covered in blood._

He took a silent breath. It was like he was at rock-bottom again.

_You've slapped me, you hurt me_

_You called me names _

_You wouldn't let me be free_

_So I'll fly away, in the dead of the night._

He had demons; he had his way of exercising them. You had to find coping mechanisms if life had fucked you over as often as it had him.

_Oh, the vodka won't help forever_

_And the needle's calling with the cigarettes_

_No, I'm not being clever_

_Just spending nights in prison cells._

_So I won't last forever_

_I'll go out with drama._

The dry skin on his fingers peeled slightly as they crashed over grooved metal strings.

_Because away from the aeroplanes_

_On the dusty cold ground_

_My soul tied down by chains_

_And my messed up love for you._

_Of aeroplane wings_

_In midnight glow_

_And guitar strings_

_In the minor key._

_I'll fly away_

_I won't be hurt_

_My soul is grey_

_And covered in blood._

Covered in blood at the bottom of a stone staircase; high and drunk, babbling, his (now, thankfully, ex) girlfriend standing at the top, arms folded and laughing at her boyfriend that had turned to drink and drugs because of her abuse.

_So I'm lying in a hospital bed_

_My heart broken and my soul rotting._

_There's a bandage 'round my head_

_And restraints around my wrist._

Of course, she denied everything. What girl hit a boy? He was so much stronger than her.

Bullshit.

_Of course she'd never hit me, she's a little girl_

_Shut up and take it, be a man_

_She's as dainty as a pearl_

_And you're a slut, a junkie, a stone-cold drunk._

_Stay away from her you liar_

_She's a perfect little angel._

He was clean now, and getting better. Cuts and bruises healed, bones set; he'd put on a little weight after detoxing from the heroin, so he wasn't skin and bone anymore, but he was still rather thin and sickly.

_Because away from the aeroplanes_

_On the dusty cold ground_

_My soul tied down by chains_

_And my messed up love for you._

_Of aeroplane wings_

_In midnight glow_

_And guitar strings_

_In the minor key._

_I'll fly away_

_I won't be hurt_

_My soul is grey_

_And covered in blood._

Who listened to what a junkie says when the perfect little girl next door burst into tears at the '_unfair_' accusation.

_I'm laying here, almost dead_

_You're playing the perfect girl_

_All those fake tears you shed…_

Of course he was lying. He was just some criminal scum.

_Because away from the aeroplanes_

_On the dusty cold ground_

_My soul tied down by chains_

_And my messed up love for you._

_Of aeroplane wings_

_In midnight glow_

_And guitar strings_

_In the minor key._

_I'll fly away_

_I won't be hurt_

_My soul is grey_

_And covered in blood._

_Covered in my own blood._

"That's much better, Martin," Carolyn said from behind the glass.

"Thanks…" Martin exhaled, tears slipping down his cheekbones. He wiped his face.

"You can get out of there; Douglas should be here soon."

"Already here, actually," Douglas leaned casually against the doorframe.

"Yeah, get in there Douglas and turf Martin out."

"Hard song?"

"Emotional song. You know how his are, they're all so depressing."

"The one about flying down from the bridge, never breathing again? The one about red ribbons on wrists?"

"And more," Carolyn sighed.

"That's just Martin, he's a dark person under the ginger hair, freckles and stuttering. What was it about this time?"

"Relationship abuse, alcoholism, drugs and cigarettes."

"He needs to lighten up."

"Just get in there and do your job."

"Good luck Douglas," Martin said in passing, eyes slightly bloodshot.

"I don't need luck."

Douglas stretched his fingers before his fingers touched the ivory of the piano. He was only covering a piece, he had no motivation to write now-a-days. He sung 'Somewhere Only We Know' – Keene version, thank you very much.

His mind kept flicking back to Martin, though.


End file.
